


Breathable Cancers

by neonroadkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Thramsay - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonroadkill/pseuds/neonroadkill
Summary: Modern AU Theon meets modern AU Ramsay. Events ensue.





	

It tasted like ash.

Theon had to repress his urge to choke as the smoke of the cigarette fills his lungs, blackening his insides. The smell was thick and putrid, and he inhaled deeply, shivering. It seeped through his throat and into his stomach and out to his very fingertips, warming them in the frigid autumn air. He didn't smoke- or at least, he didn’t used to, up until a week ago. But it was so fucking cold, and one of the kids from the trailer park had offered him a drag and even though it felt like breathing in a fireplace, it kept him warm. He pulled his windbreaker around him a little tighter. He hadn’t been home in three days.

He could go back to the house, he knew that. He knew Robb would worried sick by now, walking from wall to wall, pacing and pacing, but he wouldn’t go back. He couldn’t give Jon the satisfaction. They used to be close, him and Jon, when they were kids. They knew what they had in common, but nobody ever said it, not out loud. He used to call Jon his ‘alter-ego’ and Robb would bend over backwards trying to figure it out. It was like their little secret. At least, it was until one day Jon’s father had found out that Theon hit him and whipped him raw with a leather belt.

So no. No more little secrets. No more ‘alter-ego’.

Theon shivered, sinking down against a snow-crusted maple. He took another suffocating drag from his cigarette and curled up, making himself as small as possible. Jon used to make up stories about a winter that would overshadow all winters, that would come one day and never end. This one would definitely end one day, but damn all hell if it wasn’t the coldest he’d ever felt.

Jon had gotten so jealous when Theon got closer to Robb. It was always about Robb- Robb this, Robb that. Robb never cared, but the moment Theon befriended Robb Jon turned vapid with envy. It wasn’t just about having Robb as a friend- it had never been about that, really. It was about being a Stark. Not in the literal sense, but in the sense of relationships, the feeling of hands clasped together over grace before a meal, the moment you know that someone would do anything for you.

It was like every time opened his mouth he talked to Robb, Jon burst into flames, destroying everything he could to make sure that he would never be second, that he would always, irrevocably, unquestionably be a Stark. That was the one thing that Jon couldn’t bear to lose. For the first few years it wasn’t a big deal, even after the bruised knuckles and the black eyes and the broken arms that nobody talked about. Even then. It was never a big deal until that night, when it had finally happened, just him and Robb alone. Alone together. Theon remembered the honey on his lips and the feeling of their bodies pressed together and the ball of lead that dropped into his stomach the moment he saw the look on Jon’s face at breakfast the next day and realised that he _knew_. So then Jon burned.

He burned, and he burned, and he burned, until nothing was left but two broken ribs, a split lip and all the other ashes bleeding into his lungs.

And so he ended up here.

Shivering in the cold with snowflakes catching in the blood on his lips and black smoke swirling about in his chest.

Enter: A Stranger, lips barely brushing the backs of his ear. Breath like steam.

“Breathable cancer is all the rage these days, then?”  
‘  
The stranger’s voice was light and sharp, sending shivers down his spine.

“Think you’re fucking smart, don’t you. Think it’s cool to blacken your lungs and rot your brain?”

Theon didn’t turn around. He gritted his teeth, “It’s cold.”

“Eleven minutes per cigarette, straight down the drain.” The stranger started to walk around, beginning to face him. “Pretty thing like you, I’d savor every minute. Pity.”

Theon could see the stranger’s face now, clear in the frostbitten air. A striking young man with ice blue eyes and a jaw that could cut steel. He stood an inch or so shorter than Theon, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. The stranger bit his lip, eyes laughing at Theon’s obvious discomfort.

“Every. Last. Minute.”

Theon didn’t say anything. Just stood there, skin prickling. Something told him that this was the kind of person that you love with a passion that goes beyond the stars, or cross the wrong way and wind up disemboweled thirty miles upstream of a white picket fence community lake.

The stranger held his gaze for a few more deliciously uncomfortable seconds.

“So what brings you here to an empty forest at 5am?” The stranger asked, glancing down at the forest floor just long enough for Theon to feel more comfortable.

Theon shifted, trying to seem as not-terrified-going-to-bolt-at-any-second as he could.

“I could ask you the same thing, I guess.”

The stranger sighed and shrugged, walking about and feeling the crunch of leaves beneath his shoes.

“Waiting for you.”

The air froze.

“You don’t mean that.” said Theon. All his hair was standing on end, an exhilarating kind of fear that only comes from conversation. Absolute terror.

The stranger leaned closer, backing him up against the maple. Theon could hear his blood rush through his veins. Like it was all in slow motion, Theon felt it all happen before it did, sense the boy’s hand on his shoulder, a stranger’s lips pressed against his own.

The stranger kissed him, slowly. Deeply.

Theon could taste the blood from his lip seep out.

The other boy’s hand on his shoulder was strong, fingertips digging into the fabric of his jacket. The kiss wasn’t any softer. Definitely not gentle.

Theon could hear his heart pounding away as the boy withdrew, ice blue eyes piercing right through his chest.

“I definitely meant it.”

Theon barely heard him, his heart was beating so fast. His breath misted up in the air, his lips were still wet, freezing.

“Ramsay. Bolton.” Said the stranger, methodically folding up a piece of paper and sliding it into Theon’s left jean pocket.

“Good to know.” Theon managed to choke out, sounding surprisingly less petrified than he felt. He couldn’t seem to stop looking into the boy’s glacial eyes.

The stranger looked down, pulling his own jacket tighter about him.

“Let me know,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet Theon’s, “if you need someone to bruise that lip of yours again.”

Theon’s breath caught in his chest as the stranger began to walk away, smirking. It took him three seconds and ten steps from the stranger to gather his courage.

“I’m not going to call you.”

The words hung in the air like stalactites. Theon froze. He had misstepped. He should have just let the boy walk away. He could have called someone after. Asha. Anyone.

Suddenly, he felt like a trapped rabbit, no- not trapped. Dead. Dead and about to be skinned and roasted and seasoned with a three course appetizer.

“Of course you will.”

The tension shattered as the boy- Ramsay- tossed a smile over his shoulder at Theon. It wasn’t meant to make him feel more comfortable, he knew that. It wasn’t a friendly goodbye, or an attempt at friendship. It was smile that was meant to chill him straight down to the bone.

And it did.


End file.
